9 Lives
by MissBubbles
Summary: This is St. John Allerdyce's life, not quite the way he would have planned it.


Author's note: This was a sort-of attempt at some character development. It's just what came to me as I wrote, so it's perhaps a little more wordy and less grammary (not a word, I know) than most of my other stuff. I've edited it a bit but not too much, because I kind of liked the way it seemed to sound like it was coming straight from his thoughts.

Slight Ryro, if you're looking for it.

This is St. John Allerdyce's life - not quite the way he would have planned it.

**9 Lives**

If John had nine lives, which he was pretty certain he didn't, then he'd already used up five of them…

There had been the house in Massachusetts where he'd been St. John. His mother had been happy and his father a kind man. There had been toys and stories and a little boy who sulked for nothing and smiled without thinking.

Then his father had been less kind and his mother less happy. There had been days locked in the dark and days barely breathing from fear he'd make his mother cry or his father shout. There had been cuts and bruises and a monster in the sitting room.

He'd set fire to the curtains when he was fourteen and life one had ended, out on the doorstep in the middle of winter, a rucksack at his feet and his father's shouts in his ear.

'_Why couldn't you just be normal?'_

But he was a kid and you can't send a kid back if it's broken – they just chucked it out with the rest of the rubbish instead; his father full of anger and his mother too cold to care.

Then there'd been the mansion in New York. He'd been John there because he got sick of telling classmates he wasn't a saint and sick of teachers laughing at the irony. There had been Bobby, who was cold but friendly and welcoming and so much better than home and there had been Xavier, kind and distant and never really caring enough. But it was warmer there and the days in detention with Doctor Grey were worth the days in detention with Mr Summers.

Then there was Rogue and everything had gotten so much better and so much worse all at once. There was more Logan, less Bobby and too much Rogue, but never quite enough…

And then there was Stryker and more bruises and Magneto and Mystique. Life two ended lying in the snow by Alkali Lake, not quite dying but not quite living either.

In life three he was Pyro and anger was all he'd known. Nothing had mattered then; except living and winning and never giving in. It wasn't warm but it was dry and he wasn't so alone. He wasn't broken here – broken or berated or second best. He was just Pyro; the mutant, the outlaw, the rebel. Nothing mattered – only the fire.

There'd been the Brotherhood in this life and he'd been important; a leader. But still never quite understood; still never quite accepted.

Then there'd been Raven instead of Mystique and Phoenix instead of Jean Grey and no Mr Summers or Scott or Cyclops at all. There'd been Bobby again, except now he was Iceman and Pyro was still second best. There'd been fire and ice and pain and darkness.

Carried almost to safety, but not quite, kneeling in the rubble of Alcatraz with his hands cuffed behind his back and a gun pressed to his throat, life three had ended and life four had begun.

In life four Pyro was silenced, then crippled, then executed altogether. In life four he'd been 'Allerdyce'. There'd been white walls and no fire and nothing at all. It had been cold and empty. He'd been lonely, but never alone; always watched, never free.

Life four had been short, but not short enough.

Life five had been the mansion again. But this time it wasn't warm or welcoming or friendly at all. There was no Doctor Grey or Mr Summers or Professor Xavier. There was Storm and Wolverine and angry stares and accusing whispers. There wasn't quite Bobby but not really Iceman, just looks that made him wish he'd never reached the not-quite safety that day on Alcatraz. There was no Rogue, just Marie and he wasn't even second best any more.

Here he didn't have a name. He wasn't St. John, because he was born broken and he couldn't be John because he'd died beside Alkali Lake. Pyro had been extinguished with a smirk and a syringe and Allerdyce was a cruel man left behind in a house in Massachusetts.

Life five wasn't good, but it wasn't awful. There wasn't much, but it was more than nothing. It was enough for now…

If John had nine lives, then he still had four left. And perhaps Rogue and Pyro (but not that Pyro) weren't gone for ever. Perhaps one day he wouldn't be second best…


End file.
